Every photograph she took was timed,
Carefully delayed to catch
The rosacea as it bled beneath
The skin over the horizon.

Like a schedule, dependably she
Synced her watch—four am sharp,
Rose, washed, clothed,
And trekked to a point of interest;

Her tripod on a courthouse roof
Or out the window of someone else’s residence,
Lense facing the redness leaking from
The backs of apartments she’d already visited;

The camera dials, coaxed by her slender fingers
Adjusted themselves as her vision blurred, then cleared.
And the grapefruit squirted and stung her eye
And she blinked and missed the moment.

She packed up her tripod and camera—
Six o three am.
She thanked the groggy tenant
Who’d let her in so early.

Every photo she took was
A sunrise, the pink hanging like
Dew in the air, a cloud bleeding out
And the sun past her mark.